


pinas, pintura, patria

by EKmisao



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EKmisao/pseuds/EKmisao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjo the activist from Cebu finally meets his online rival from the capital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. rival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kannibal (keio)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keio/gifts), [Stormberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormberry/gifts).



> Hm. How to say this. 
> 
> This started out from a Pinoy version of Enjolras by K. I don't remember the prompt anymore, but R snowballed from there. 
> 
> These are semi-random, often caused by requests for prompts. They were all initially on tumblr over several months. But I hope you like.

The young man clasped his hands together and grinned. He was finally going to meet his rival. 

His more computer-savvy friends finally managed to track down his staunchest online opponent. Everything he said online and offline was eventually countered, either through an email, or a long comment on Facebook or his blog. He even dared go on a tumblr duel. Many times. 

It did not matter what topic was on the agenda. The enemy was more than his equal, attacking every point with intuition and wit. The online rival knew his boxing beyond Pacquiao, knew his music beyond pop stars and rock bands, knew his art before others did. Definitely he knew his public affairs and his politics with a cynical awareness of its many faults. 

The opponent was smart; none of the online accounts gave information on appearance or true name. There were no pictures to go by, and no links to Foursquare or Google Maps, even if there were plenty of Instagram posts of paintings, exhibits, bar gigs, small concerts, and boxing equipment at a Fitness First. Any information given on FB was vague and useless.

The friends had resorted to extrapolating from the available pictures, narrowing down the search to Metro Manila. Which was still like finding a needle in a mound of needles. 

The oil-on-canvas pieces and the charcoal sketches were simply signed as “R” on one corner. They were becoming online-famous. The broadsheets started to take notice. Galleries began to feature his work. 

The friends inquired at the small galleries that had already hosted R’s work; the curators said they met with a representative. They did not know his name. 

Combeferre, though, finally found a chance. 

"This is most recent Instagram post, just minutes ago," he said, showing a picture of a band playing at SaGuijo. 

"This could be an old shot, just uploaded." Enjolras shrugged. 

"It’s still our best chance," his friend said.

…………………………

He grumbled and griped, in English, Tagalog, and Cebuano, and a smattering of strong Waray, about the cheating taxi meter and how the taxi driver went in circles when he could have gone straight to the bar. This is why the country is going to the dogs, the politicians are forcing the ordinary citizen to be a cheat just to barely survive to the next day….

"I’ll pay, Enjo," his friend tried to appease him. "We’re here." 

They found their way through the packed bar, staring at the art on the landing, finding the mysterious one-letter signature on one corner. 

Combeferre swung around his smartphone, with the camera app active. He squeezed through the bar regulars as he watched the images from his phone. 

Then he stopped. Combeferre carefully viewed the image, dimmed by the smoke and the lowered lighting. Then he turned around, and pointed at the person just behind him. 

Enjolras stared. He found a young man, alone at a dark corner, solidly native in skin color and appearance, his face hidden by black curls. A cheek was flattened on a table surrounded by several empty shot glasses and beer bottles, as drool fell onto the table. 

"Impossible," the Cebuano declared. 

"Possible," said his friends.


	2. wrong man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spillover from events in the last chapter.

Of course no one dreams of revolution anymore. Not in Mega Manila. Sure, the local internet can scream all it wants through social media about the political stupidity, the political absence of a situation. But the men and women in barongs and baro’t sayas don’t hear it or see it. So what’s the use. 

Still, it was interesting to counter the crazy idealist from the Visayas, who wanted to change the country from nowhere, without knowing anybody who matter. 

The grime of the north was just detached noise from the national TV to the southerners. But to him, a guy of the capital, it was life, now boring and pointless. It was just fun to make the idealist see things his way. It was more interesting when the idealist refused to be reasonable and jaded. 

So he bugged him and bugged him and bugged him. But the idealist did not change. 

He started to like him. From across the internets. 

………………………..

He was not sure how he ended up back in his rented apartment unit in Manila. He remembered dozing off to the trumpets of the Radioactive Sago Project. People ignored his paintings at the Theo Gallery. Then again, they did not know it was him, and he preferred it that way. He was just there to make sure they did not post the canvases upside-down. 

That was all he was good for, really: listening to bands only the SaGuijo knew about for the moment, painting stuff people seemed to like online, boxing away his irritation at yet another screaming 80’s song cover and derivative art, pestering idealists who wanted to change the nation, drinking himself senseless while alone.

But he was not alone, that late warm morning. When he rubbed his eyes, he found a young man….rather, he found a warrior, lithe, sinewy, and fierce.

Twitter and Facebook icons immediately made him aware of his visitor. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped.

"Did I throw up on you?" he stammered.

The Bisaya looked like a direct descendant of that famous landmark of a warrior. He just lacked the sword. He frowned.

"Oh, no, I did, right? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll find something for you to wear…."

"Stop," the young man said. "You didn’t. Just snored and mumbled a lot all the way home." 

He sighed with relief. Still, what was his best online dueling partner doing in his room? 

"I have finally found you," said the duelist. 

He stared at the young man at the foot of his bed. 

Of course he knew who Enjo was. Who didn’t, among those who followed political thought in social media. Enjo’s name was regularly cited on ANC. He had even been given short media clips about this activism work in the Visayas. What his mind could not process was how the man was in his apartment. 

"You….you’re mistaking me for someone else," he told him. HIs head pounded from the sun, the alcohol, and the presence before him. 

"Why do you even presume that I am in the right place, mistaking you for someone else?" The accent was light and clipped. 

"Because you’re Enjo, and you have the wrong man," he said. 

Enjo folded his arms over his chest. “You are Grantaire. Don’t deny it.” 

He fell out of bed, knocking his behind onto the cement floor. But the Bisaya kept glaring at him. 

He sighed as he scratched his head. “That is my online handle, yes.” 

"French for ‘capital-R’," the other said. 

He nodded. 

"And the R stands for?" 

He sat on the floor and held his head. “Something boring you wouldn’t want to know,” he said. 

"I still want to know," Enjo answered. 

"Rene. Happy now?" 

"French for ‘renewed’ or ‘reborn’." 

"Like Requiestas. Not even like Salud. Stop it with the French already," he grumbled. "It’s just something boring. Son of a guy and his lolo named the same way. Is all. Very Spanish. Very Pinoy." 

"So you’d rather be called R, huh." 

He shrugged. He did not care. “How did you even get here?” 

"You gave us the directions." 

" ‘Us’?" 

"Me and Ferre and Rac." 

"And, where are the other two?" 

"Went back to their units." This time it was Enjo who shrugged. 

"And you?" 

There was a long pause, before Enjo spoke again. “I have no place. In Manila.”


	3. tatsulok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short and somewhat random.

The scent of paint grabbed at him and shook him awake. 

Enjo swung an arm to the left, but it landed on firm mattress under a bedsheet. He groaned. He was an early bird, but six am was still too early to be up already, and for hours, if the coolness of the empty area of the bed was anything to go by. 

He groaned again as he scratched his head and got up from his side of the bed. He cringed and snorted. He rubbed his eyes, waking himself enough to find out why he was already alone. 

He found R staring blankly at a canvas as tall as himself. R sat transfixed on a tall stool, asleep with eyes open, with a pleased small grin. 

He found his face and his figure screaming at himself from the canvas, himself wearing a red tunic, his small tattoos past the clavicle peeking from under the shirt. 

He surrealistically screamed in three local languages, weaved into a tapestry of words above him and surrounding him:

"Hanggang may tatsulok / At sila ang nasa tuktok / Di matatapos itong gulo " 

He was not sure if he was dreaming, or truly seeing himself in a work of art.


	4. dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the 'awkward dancing' prompt from stormberry….or was it joshinken?….i don't remember anymore.

R kept odd hours, which finally explained why online responses sometimes came real-time or with an interval of hours. This Enjo learned with difficulty, as he tried to form a schedule for himself in Manila, and failing to understand how to fit R in it. Or how to fit himself in R’s confusing shifting life. He was not even sure why it was important to do so. 

So when they finally found themselves together in the apartment that afternoon, it was a small miracle. 

"Um…." 

"Hm?" 

"Care for a night out? I’m free tonight. If you are." 

He looked tired. Enjo knew he had been furiously completing three large paintings, one in oils and two in charcoal. Enjo himself had just finished interviews and submitted freelance articles. ”Can’t we stay in?” he asked. 

R shrugged, but gently sighed in relief. “Food?” 

"Turo-turo." Enjo was provincial landed gentry. It still meant his funds were often limited. 

"Music?" 

"Whatever you have." 

"Are you sure?" 

He nodded, though he did not know what he was agreeing to. 

R then set his laptop’s volume to highest, as he set the iTunes running a master playlist on random. 

This gave them an eclectic mix of local music from known and still-unknown artists, a welcome background to a quiet meal of rice, soup, vegetables, and sisig, as they sat across each other. 

R lifted his head from the last of his rice. “You’re dancing to the next song that comes up.” 

"HA?!" 

"I’m bored, you’re bored." 

Enjo rolled his eyes but conceded the fact. “Fine.” 

But he cringed as the opening guitars played and he heard the young tenor of Daniel Padilla, starting “Nasa Iyo na ang Lahat”. 

R grinned. “You promised.” 

"Sinadya mo!" 

R shook his head and lifted his right hand to swear. 

Yet Enjo could not deny that the song had a certain danceability to it.

He laughed as he got up and erratically swung his hips and kept irregular time with his legs, following the carribean-inspired ukelele playing, as he brought the plates to the sink.

He had two left feet, and he was willing himself to embarrassingly reveal it to this painter. He let R laugh at his awkwardness. He endured the torture, aware that the song was short, and finished quickly.

But R set the song on loop.

At the second run, Enjo put his foot down and glared at him.

R, however, did not chide or laugh. He silently let the song play, as he looked straight into the young man. 

"What?" 

R gave him a sad smile, letting the song play a third time as he looked away, tidied away the water glasses and the vinegar. 

Enjo was about to roll his eyes again at the absurdity and school-youthfulness of the song, solidly targeted to market to impressionable schoolgirls. But he paused, and listened well at the recurring phrase: 

"Nasa ‘yo na ang lahat….pati ang puso ko." 

He stared well at R, but the dark curls disappeared into the bathroom.


	5. intertropical convergence zone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW warning is in place for this chapter. 
> 
> this was the 'umbrella-sharing' prompt, and the subsequent spillover. stormberry has nice prompts, is all.

Enjo growled at the heavens.

He was a man of the south, and not in the way that Alabang was the south and Quezon City was the north, the way citizens of the capital thought. He was from the south of the country, in that Baguio was the north and Mindanao was the south. 

When it rained in the southern islands, it gave fair warning, a polite announcement, cooled the air, watered the crops and trees, gracefully, then said farewell, begging his leave of his majesty the sun. The weather of the capital was as obnoxious and rude and angry as many of its citizens: it rained in angry bouts, flooding the clogged polluted streets, or it blazed in angered humid heat. 

He cursed one of the many occasions he forgot, again, that he was in the capital, the north, where the weather was unpredictable and angry. He cursed being soaked in the rain, not even daring to brave climbing four flights of stairs, toward the futility of waiting for broken MRTs. He cursed not having a clue what jeepney or bus to take on the way home. He cursed that he already knew that he would not take a taxi, not in these conditions, for he knew he would merely rant against the capitalism and greed that made taxi drivers overcharge. 

He understood, a little, why the northerners were cynical and apathetic. And yet, as he began to be completely soaked by the pollution-filled rain, he swore again not to be one of those cynical and apathetic citizens of the overpopulated country. 

But he was now soaked, and drenched, with no way home. 

Suddenly the water stopped pounding his head. It continued to pour around him but it stopped hitting his skull and soaking his clothes. 

He raised his head and found an umbrella. He turned and found a cynical apathetic citizen of the capital. 

"I know a Figaro near here. Let’s wait this out," R said. 

"That’s not 24-hours," he complained. 

"It closes at 10. It will do. By then some of this chaos will have settled. Or we’ll find a 7-11." 

"Fine," he said. 

But a part of him collapsed into the warmth, into the assurance of someone who knew his way around the chaos. He ducked within that warmth, and allowed himself to be led into a mini-mall, into dryness, into safety. 

………………………………

Enjo had hot chocolate and soup. R, knowing he had to be one who stayed alert, took plain brewed coffee and pasta. He had removed Enjo’s wet jacket, but could do nothing about the rest of the clothes. 

Enjo grew quiet and lowered his head onto the table. R reached out and felt a very warm forehead. He sighed and checked his wallet. Then he fished out a phone, swiped and pressed buttons to access GrabTaxi. 

He was used to being alone with his thoughts in a taxi, but he found it hard to get used to being alone with his thoughts while with Enjo, for the guy tended to debate everything he heard on the afternoon or evening AM radio news shows, and he countered every point he could. Having Enjo quietly snoring with his head on R’s shoulder was highly unusual, more unusual than the rearview-mirror stares he got from the taxi driver.

He was in the area. He had some idea that Enjo would be as well, but he did not think much into it. Seeing him getting drenched in an ITCZ-related downpour was unexpected.

He was not even sure how he found him, among all the people getting soaked by the rain, among the faces already hidden under umbrellas. Maybe it was that proud, prideful stride, visible and different from all the natives of the capital. It was the thing. No one could ever put a name to it, but it drew people to him, made people pay attention and listen.

But now the thing was off, shut down, and all he had leaning on his shoulder was a quiet young man, lost and drenched in a life he did not want. All because he wanted to find this crazy mysterious painter who countered him all the time.

He sighed, as he patted Enjo’s head.

He paid the traffic-elevated fare, and somehow managed to lift the lighter man onto his back.

He managed to place him onto the bed, then searched for dry clothes.

He first removed the damp shirt, revealing the tight torso beneath. He sighed at the eyes, now blanked by the fever, as he wiped him dry with a towel, lingering on the back and the chest. Then he wrangled his way into placing a new shirt over him. 

He removed shoes and socks. Then he lay him down.

He unzipped the jeans and lowered both underwear and jeans together. He gulped as he stared for some moments at his groin, before he proceeded to slipping on new briefs onto it.

"Mmmmm."

In positioning the underwear, he had had to press onto the groin. He ignored it.

"Mmmm…..again."

He raised an eyebrow. But he lowered his hand again, and cupped the groin gently, feeling their softness.

Enjo moaned. R cupped them again, and he moaned again.

Enjo lowered his hands, lowered the underwear, and revealed the groin beneath it again. He blindly sought R’s hands, and brought it again over the bare skin of his scrotum and penis.

"You’re delirious, I’ll get some biogesic…."

Enjo held onto him. “Again. Please.”

"You sure?"

"Hmmm."

R sighed, and gulped at the sight before him, as he removed the briefs and parted the legs. 

He massaged the scrotum in his hands as Enjo moaned, eyes closed. He watched as the shaft slowly engorged and lifted under his ministrations, as Enjo continued to moan and sigh. The balls were soft and smooth, fit comfortably in his hands as his fingers explored the round dimensions and the gentle skin. 

He stroked the underside of the shaft, gently coaxing it to rise and stand erect. The skin of the underside was thin and soft, sensitive to his fingers. The line there was straight and delicate, and Enjo gasped as he ran his finger across it. The eyes were already rolled up over his head. 

He fondled the entire shaft as it stiffened, as its owner began to moan louder and gasp. He kept a finger circling around the tip, as he milked the shaft with the rest of his fingers. He shifted his hand back onto the scrotum, as he saw the shaft erect and filled.

He placed his lips around the shaft and filled his mouth with it, as Enjo gave a final gasp and shuddered, releasing saltiness into his mouth. 

He watched as the gasps slowed into gentle breaths, then changed into deep breaths in sleep. 

He covered him in a blanket, and placed a cool towel over his forehead.


	6. hipster rizal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the 'accidentally wearing each other's shirts' prompt. um, yeah.

He was in a hurry and slipped on the nearest decent shirt over his jeans. It was a rally, anyhow; he did not need to be formal. He dressed with just the sunrise slipping through the window to help; R snored deeply where he left him. 

When he arrived at the gates of Malacanang, however, the two C’s stared not at him, but at his shirt. 

"Hipster Rizal. Really?" Ferre raised an eyebrow as he cocked his glasses. 

Rac grinned and shrugged instead. “Nice Team Manila shirt R has.”

Enjo looked down and found the most famous version of the polyglot, wearing superimposed modern colors and sunglasses. He rolled his eyes. 

Rac patted his shoulder. “It looks good on you, pare, don’t worry. Let’s get the party started!” 

Enjo raised a fist and grabbed the megaphone. 

…………………………

Fumbling through a sleepy haze, he cursed at how tight or small or shrunk the shirt he forced on was. It revealed the beer fat around his abdominals, as well as his pectorals. But it was already past noon, and Feuilly, who sold his paintings, would arrive soon. He had to look decent. He smoothed down his unruly curled hair, springing in all directions. 

He had barely looked presentable to himself, with an over-tight shirt and regular tattered jeans, as he answered Feuilly’s doorbell. 

The trader raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Hmmmm. Sexy.”

R raised both eyebrows. “I like you as my trader, but I will NOT date you.” 

Feuilly laughed. “Oh, the feeling’s mutual. Keep that activist cutie to yourself. But I can show you off to the galleries in that getup.” 

He looked down and sighed as it dawned that he forced himself into one of Enjo’s form-fitting shirts. 

He shrugged as he rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But the answer is still no.” 

Feuilly sighed. “Sayang. You’d look good on print media.” 

……………………..

Enjo returned to the apartment with a sore throat and a soaked shirt. He found R snoring, his arms spread out over the bed, wearing a shirt that looked familiar. But he was too exhausted from the rally and the hosing-down to wonder why R was wearing one of his shirts. He dropped onto the bed, spreading his arm over R’s torso. 

A snore awoke R for a moment. ”Hipster Rizal, really?” he asked. 

"Shut up and sleep," Enjo growled, wrapping his arm around the waist.


	7. exhibit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some nsfw.

Enjo awoke to find R fast asleep while seated before an oil on canvas. 

The artist had been feverishly painting several canvases over the last few nights, always working in the evenings and sleeping during the day. Enjo, though, was not sure why. He was just glad to find R busy about something instead of doodling and wandering about randomly. 

He tapped R on the shoulder, cautiously, afraid of tipping him onto the still-drying canvas. "Go to bed." 

But R only replied with a snore. 

Enjo sighed. "Anyway, go to bed. I have a press conference. Back later." 

He gently placed a kiss on his forehead. 

…………………………………

He returned after battling traffic, and battling the legalities of rent-a-fancy-car apps versus the morality of a calm way to deal with traffic. He found R still asleep….or asleep again after consuming the several bottles of beer and one bottle of gin surrounding him as he lay on the floor. Enjo held him at the shoulders to shake him awake, but received several snores. 

The room was bereft of the canvases he saw that morning, making the area unnaturally bare to what he was used to. It was probably what R was celebrating. When he was like this, R was impossible to wake. 

R's cellular phone rang from nearby, playing new music from the Eraserheads. He peeked at it. 

He answered the phone. "You're the manager, right?" He decided to be direct, in case it was important. "Sorry, he's….indisposed." 

"Ah, the Apollo, the muse!" Feuilly chirped instead. "Perfect!" 

"Huh?" 

"A man used to the media, to public speaking! Are you free tonight? Do you have any engagements? Can you come tonight to the opening?" 

"Sandali!" Enjo said. "What is opening?" 

But Feuilly laughed into his ears. "R's first big exhibition! Come! I beg you! I need to show them the muse!" 

Enjo stared with bulging eyes at the drunk artist, as he forced himself to concentrate on a mall address. 

………………………………..

Wearing his best rendition of smart business, Enjo arrived at the gallery as a few guests already mingled. 

He stared at the 'tatsulok' canvas, of his profile shouting the famous chorus with a fist raised. He saw his profile punching through print propaganda to penetrate the truth. He saw himself pushing back political corruption. There were others that had many figures within the large canvases, but all of them had his face or his profile somewhere. 

Only one canvas had a different body profile; it had R's, but revealed only his back, attacked, beaten, pierced, and scarred with as many national ills as could be fit in. 

More guests filled the gallery, stopping to concentrate at each piece, all quietly marked with a dark R at a corner. 

Enjo remained silent, as he himself contemplated all the canvases that had his face or his profile. He had not known. R had never shown them to him. 

But the guests eventually looked from the paintings, then at Enjo. 

"But that's the new media darling!" 

"The activist from the southern islands!" 

"I just saw him on ANC this morning!" 

More guests looked at him. More of them whispered. 

Feuilly finally clapped and addressed the assembly. "Yes, this is he, the inspiration for many of these pieces. A fine specimen of humanity, is he not?" 

The audience laughed politely. 

Enjo, however, knew his opportunity, and took it. "Let it not be said that a man inspired these. Rather, look well and see the plight of our entire nation. Realize that it is not only I who dares to fight what the ordinary man thinks are insurmountable odds. Things can change, no matter how grounded in tradition and greed the system has become…." 

And so he spoke, to an assemblage of young art collectors, lower-level politicians, and rising business leaders. He spoke on as the dignified crowd began to nod their heads in agreement. 

Thus several canvases were sold, and business leaders agreed to support a cause. 

……………………………….

He arrived at the apartment a little past midnight. He finally found R awake, holding his head as he sat at the table, in front of a mug of green tea. R smirked in greeting. 

"I'm sending you back to sleep," Enjo declared as he approached. 

R raised an eyebrow. 

Enjo held R at the shirt front as he locked lips over his. He kissed everything he could quickly get at around his face: the forehead, the cheeks, the rough chin. He devoured the neck as he brought him over to the bed. 

He rapidly removed a shirt and boxers before R had a chance to understand what was happening, never mind complain. He caressed and kissed every part he could: the broad shoulders, the strong chest, the sinewy arms, the gentle hands, the tight torso. He lowered himself toward the shaft and kissed it as well, fondling its thickness. He wanted to taste, to savor, everything about him. He had had a taste of his brain through the art. Now he wanted to feel his body. 

Feeling his own stiffness, he parted the legs. He readied him as he caressed the prostate, sending pleased gasps. He coated his stiffness. Then he entered him. 

He kept caressing the large shaft as he rocked his hips, his stiffness needy and needful, wanting to both give pleasure and to feel it. R sweated and gasped at his ministration, the eyes beginning to roll up. 

When he could no longer hold back, he released into him, as R also quivered and released. 

He licked away and tasted all that came from the shaft, and in that manner tasted his body and torso all over again. He went up and received an exchange of lips and tongues, as he kept caressing the relaxing shaft. 

He drifted a hand over R's face, sending the eyelids down. R's eyes closed, and his head rolled to its side in slumber. 

He drifted off as well, an arm over R's warm heaving chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been to a few openings, but have no clue about what art galleries matter and where they are (sorry, the people I know are more on the literature and comics world). So I thought I'd rather not make a fool of myself and thus gave no gallery names.


	8. never forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Nov. 8 of last year was when Typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan) devastated most of the Visayas. Typhoon Ondoy (Ketsana) was in Sept. 23, 2009, and scared the capital. Both were terrible, Yolanda more so. This is kinda the chapter to help me not forget. 
> 
> \- Malacanang has several gates. The Mendiola gate is the most accessible to the general public, especially student activists. 
> 
> This is all just in case some non-Pinoys are actually reading this thing. 
> 
> Thank you to all of you who are actually reading this thing, btw.

He was a man of the capital. Thus it was Ondoy that left scars on him: visions of water, water, everywhere but not a drop to drink; terrified thoughts of where relatives and friends were; things that floated; water where it should not be; food scrimped for all it was worth; water that reached past a first floor and threatened to reach a second floor. But in many places there was electricity, and mobile, and TV, and the internet.

For better or worse, he had no friends or family in the Visayas. Yolanda was terrible news: watching unprecedented devastation; seeing Atom go from ‘I can do this for the morning news, no biggie’ to ‘Oh.My.God.’ in fifteen minutes flat; frantic terror; absolute hopelessness; corruption and looting; corruption; NGOs scrambling to help; corruption; everybody scrambling to help. But news, horrifying news, and not much more.

He saw, though, how real, how personal, how terrible it was, looking at Enjo. The waray never wanted to talk about it, except with fire and rage in front of a listening captive audience, yet always with the look of terror in his eyes. 

He had no idea how he could help. He tried to drown it out with the strongest alcoholic things he could easily find. He tried to shove it away by being completely brain-soaked in alcohol by the time Enjo returned from the series of protest calls done in social and public media.

Unfortunately he woke up with an idea. It was not much, really, but it was a decent idea. 

……………………. 

Enjo arrived to an empty apartment, the day before the anniversary. He called Feuilly; the manager had no idea where his ward was. He called his friends; they did not know, either. 

But there were tributes to make, protests to finalize, a government to rattle. He had no time and no thought to spare for where was a straying artist who did not care about Yolanda. R was probably drunk somewhere, the way he found him the day before, snoring and drooling over the dining table. There were people to fight his fight within Tacloban and Cebu; he would do his part in the capital. He had to punch through apathy and forgetfulness, in a capital that did not care. 

His phone rang. 

"Check IG!" Rac said. 

"I’m busy!" he retorted. 

But his cellphone rang again. “Enjo, check FB,” said Ferre. 

"I can’t believe you guys still have time to do that," he replied and ended the call. He had two speeches and an emergency-ready-for-any-reporter quick speech to prepare. 

His phone rang again. “Enjo, seriously, just go online for a bit?” Rac said. 

"Later, later!" 

Later became never, as he typed and typed and scribbled into the night. 

……………………..

He packed some water, a shirt, and his papers into a sturdy satchel, and readied for war. Not wanting to be considered an elitist prick, he rode in the rented jeepney Ferre had acquired for the rally. 

"Did you finally see it?" Ferre asked. 

"Yeah, the president is paying no good attention to the anniversary." 

"No, no!" Ferre said, laughing through his exasperation. 

"Huh?" 

Ferre kept laughing. “You’ll see.” 

The jeepney stopped at the Mendiola gate of Malancanang, where, to Enjo’s surprise, several media vans were posted. He had expected them to arrive only after he and his friends had made some noise at the gates. 

A small group of protesters were already on the scene, most of them leaders of the college activist orgs and some members. But they were not the focus of the media attention.

A huge swathe of canvas was stretched out with wire and twine near the Mendiola gate. The canvas was as tall as the gate and as wide as the college boundary wall behind it.

Beside the canvas blared a karaoke machine, playing on endless loop the voices of people speaking in Tagalog and the Bisaya dialects, all talking about Yolanda. Most were taken from recent documentaries. Some were derived from Enjo’s sound files. Some spoke of experiences. Many complained about the ineptitude of local and national government to address the needs. 

Paint cans, spray paint cans, and paintbrushes scattered before the canvas. A young man moved at the canvas, spreading a wash of thin white paint over what already was several layers of spray paint and oils. 

With a thin brush he sketched in the islands of the Visayas. He improved on their profile afterward. He painted them all in green. It took most of an hour. 

Then he splashed blue over Leyte, Samar, Iloilo, Negros, and Cebu, over all the areas devastated by the typhoon. He spent half an hour. 

He then spray-painted the following words over it all: 

"Pilipino din sila." They, too, are Filipino. 

He paused and stood back, allowing the cameras to roll and to shoot, allowing the paint to dry. 

Enjo stared at the canvas, but more intently at the back of the painter before it. 

"There are already plenty of pictures online of the stuff he did yesterday morning and into the evening…" 

"Keep quiet, Ferre," he merely said. 

To the collective gasp of the assembled media, as well as many of the protestors, the painter splashed white paint over the well-rendered map of the Visayas. 

Then he spray-painted another message: 

"You are beginning to forget Yolanda."

R turned to the crowd, and bowed.

He collected the brushes and the paints. He walked away, as the LFS took up the slack and raised some noise. 

Rac elbowed Enjo, stunned with a dropped jaw. “What now, chief?” 

Enjo nodded and marched forward. “We keep up the fight.” 

……………………………………

He found R asleep at the door of the apartment, the cans of paint and spray paint scattered at his feet. Since he had left ahead of Enjo, he, yet again, had forgotten to bring his keys. 

Enjo smiled as he rolled his eyes and opened the door.


	9. baguio beanie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a twitter conversation some time back between K, stormberry, and me, about a tumblr comment, that inspired this thing. Unfortunately it took a week or two more before this short thing formed. But here it is. Originally on tumblr, then another week happened before I transferred it here. 
> 
> The inspiration (of which this is a pale answer) is from [here](http://kannibal.tumblr.com/post/103621837754/hi-okay-so-i-love-your-bisayajolras-thing-and-this). It also has the sketch K made of it.

Enjo had been making the rounds of the universities of wide open spaces in Quezon City, speaking in theater/exam spaces about the south, correcting myths and misinformation of the capital. He saw the natives of the Visayas and Mindanao nodding their heads at many of his words, the words they knew to be true but felt too small to contest. But these students were few and far between. 

He noticed a beanie covering a curly head in the first speaking engagement, for the philosophy students. The knitted cap had not been removed when the talk began, and was prominent in a lake of uncovered heads. Yet the owner was seated at the far back; the face was difficult to see. 

He found the beanie again at the second talk, before journalism second-years. This time it was more noticeable, for the beanie was owned by a young man wearing an opened shirt over a plain undershirt. In a crowd of kids in conservative collared shirts or shirts laced with political messages, the semi-hipster look contrasted. 

He shrugged at this, and thought the student was a reporter for one of the specific college papers. He even saw the beanie hop and hang onto an Ikot jeepney, one that plied the clockwise route around the university. The owner’s arms were snaked with dark tattooed markings, baybayin and tribal designs. He smirked. 

But as he was guided into the third college auditorium, he found the beanie again seated at the farthest row. In a crowd of fine arts students, with fashion styles as contrasting as heaven and hell, only the fact that he had seen that beanie twice before made it worth noticing. 

He squinted, wondering where he had seen that figure before the three successive speaking engagements. 

But the young man in the beanie never approached, and Enjo watched him ride away hanging onto another Ikot jeepney. 

…………………………

There were no further talks that afternoon, but traffic from Quezon City to Manila is nothing if not terrible in the late afternoon. 

The sky had turned dark and the street lights had beed started when he reached home. 

Enjo thought himself merely dazed from hunger and tired from snail-pace traffic when he found the beanie and the baybayin-snaked arms in front of the apartment. 

"Really, if you just wanted an interview…" he said, as the knitted cap turned its curly head. 

"Not really." R grinned sheepishly. "I forgot the keys again." 

Enjo hastily grabbed an arm and found it filled with baybayin letters and tribal markings, all done in henna. Long enough to last one of R’s art phases, but not permanent enough to be committal. 

"Cultural misappropriation!" he hissed. 

"Of course not," R defended. "None of these define a chieftain or a warrior, I made sure of it, though they are inspired by them. The baybayin…." 

Enjo read out the syllables circling around his arms and passing through his the shoulder blades. “Sisikapin ko magining isang tunay na makabayan. Sa isip, sa salita, at sa gawa.” I shall strive to be truly nation-focused. In thought, in word, and in deed. 

R had replaced ‘Filipino’ with ‘makabayan’, removing the trace of colonization with a term that asserted the loyalty to country. He did not use ‘bayani’, either, a term used for heroes, men who have given great honor and sacrifice. 

Enjo looked up at the knitted cap, and the grinning face beneath it. He smirked. 

"You should have made it permanent," he said as he took out the keys. 

"Nah…it was my first design," R replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- 'makabayan' translates into 'of the nation', but implies being nationalistic.   
> \- 'Filipino', while we proudly use it, is derived from the colony name our country was given.   
> \- The University of the Philippines in Diliman, created sprawlingly in the American style, has 2 jeepney routes through it, clockwise through the college buildings ('Ikot') and counterclockwise ('Toki').


	10. 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may or may not have heard that 44 elite policemen were ambushed by rebel forces in Maguindanao. While information is still trickling in, what already has us angry is the clear signs of heavy layers of politicking, resulting in the waste of so many good men, as well as all the heartless carelessness of the president. 
> 
> Wikipedia currently has a half-messy but decent summary here.

Enjo found R through with half a case of beer. The artist was dazedly crumpling sheets of sketchpad paper, then throwing them into the air, watching as they fell to the floor. The cable TV was stuck at the ANC live coverage of the necrological service, for the day of mourning. 

"What are you doing?" he asked. 

"Feeling stupid," R replied. 

"Why?" 

"Can't think of anything." 

"Because you're already drunk." 

"Putcha, no. I can't think of anything, that's why I'm boozing." R scratched his curly hair furiously with both his hands. 

Enjo took up one of the crumpled papers on the floor. He found a sketch of 44 empty chairs. He took up another, and found a sketch for the number 44. 

"These are good, you know. Post it on FB and no one will say you didn't add your voice," Enjo said. 

"That's not it," R said, finishing the bottle in his hand. "I want noise those big shots will notice. You want something that lame balding guy will notice. At least, the spokesman and the spin doctors will." He absentmindedly sketched the young wife crying through her anger while giving her speech. But he tore and crumpled and threw down the sketch as well. 

Enjo looked at the floor, covered in crumpled paper. He spoke quietly. "R." 

"Hm?" 

"You already have 44 pieces of paper on the floor." 

R looked around at the floor, and stared at the crumpled papers. 

He nodded as he stared. "Thanks." 

…………………………………

A certain part of both Facebook and Youtube began to collect hits quickly, as an amateur video went viral. 

The man did not show his face, merely wore a black shirt with the word "Justice" painted over it in white lettering. 

A white sheet of paper was raised, with the name of a man and his rank. A sound byte of a grieving wife played. 

The man brought his hands together forcefully, crumpling the paper. He then mangled the paper into a ball, then dropped it. 

Another white sheet was raised, with another name and another rank. Another female voice. This paper was torn apart at the center. 

Another white sheet with a name was punched through. A father's voice accompanied it. Another white sheet with a name was clawed at. A little child's sobs joined it. 

He repeated this 40 more times, destroying papers, each with a name and a rank. 

Once completed, the video showed the floor, filled with ruined paper. 

The video returned to the man and his shirt. He raised a last sheet of paper. 

\- How many more lives will pay for your greed? - 

The video ended in a black screen. 

…………………………………

R woke up the next day, grumbling at Enjo. 

"I wanted to make noise. I don't want to be more of an internet celebrity." 

Still with a growl, he showed him Enjo's blog, filled with pictures of R's crumpled papers, all presented without further comment. He switched to another tab, which showed the headline "Youth activist group ABC responsible for viral "Justice" video". 

The blog entries with the photos of crumpled paper were filled with comments of praise and support. The Youtube video registered a hit count in the millions, and messages in the hundreds. 

Enjo merely gave him an excited grin. "You made the noise. Now we're going to sustain it." 

"I can't do that." 

"Leave that to me."


	11. EDSA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather nsfw. Hope you like anyhow. Previously on tumblr. 
> 
> *EDSA (Epifanio delos Santos Avenue) is one of the main thoroughfares of the capital, crossing several cities. The walls through its whole length tend to be vandalized, so in recent years local government teams up with paint companies, who pick and pay the artists, and thus keep the walls un-vandalized.

Enjolras scratched his head, wondering why he arrived to an empty apartment. R tended to work at night in the apartment open spaces, painting on canvases while he slept. 

He scratched his head again while he took out his phone, swiping to call. 

R quickly answered. “Yah?” 

“Where are you?” 

“Working.” 

“Where?” He heard vehicle horns and rumbling. 

“Not sure you really want to know,” R replied. 

“Tell me anyway.” 

“You’re coming here?” Around R’s voice he heard more furious car beeps and booming bus horns, as well as the rumbling of either an MRT or LRT. 

“You’re in EDSA?!” 

“Yah.” 

“Erm…well….be careful, alright?” He scratched his head as he ended the call. 

…………………………….

He woke up to the sound of the door opening and the dragging of feet through the floor. A bag was thrown down and slid to a stop at the sofa. 

He heard the shower running for several long moments. Then it stopped. 

A warm body eventually flopped beside him. 

“You awake?” 

“I am now,” Enjolras replied. 

“Wonder if you could help me sleep faster?” 

“How?” He lifted his head. 

He was beside a naked body, sweat from the humidity clinging everywhere. 

He gulped. “I have appointments,” he reminded him. 

“It’s still early. You can still sleep in a bit,” the other coaxed. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I have appointments.” 

“Up to you, then,” R said, his eyelids drooping. 

Enjolras gulped again at the muscular frame beside him. 

He coated his hands. 

He teased the shaft, caressing at the base, fondling his way upward and around the whole. As it slowly lifted, he pressed at the tip, coaxing it to stiffen, making its owner sweat over the bed, even as his eyelids drooped down even more, as the eyes began to roll upward. 

“Not…fair…” R managed to say between pants of breath, his shaft raised. “Sleep, with me.” 

“But I need to get up in a while…” 

“That’s okay. But fall asleep with me first. Put it in.” 

“Are you sure.” 

But a timed caress made R gasp and fall back over the pillow. 

Enjolras sighed and undressed. 

He parted the legs and gently brought in his shaft, easing his way in as he continued to fondle the other. Just the sight of that form, slick with sweat and spread to serve him, made the blood rush to his need, stiffening it quickly. He rocked his hips as he continued to stiffen, as he continued to caress the stiffness he held in his hands, willing it to peak. 

Finally he saw the whole body tighten as it arced, then with a gasp of relief, he felt it relax as a whole. He pulled away from within him, even if his need had not been fulfilled yet. 

“You’re not…okay yet…” R mumbled, his eyes already closed, his body spread out over the bed. 

“It’s okay, go sleep,” he said. 

“No.” 

“It’s okay, really, go sleep. I’ll be fine.” 

“Sleep…with me…” 

Enjolras sighed. “Fine.” 

He set his alarm for the latest moment he can spare, before his eyes closed again. 

……………………………..

He headed off to his media engagements, battling Manila traffic in all its forms, cursing it the whole way, wishing for his quieter, not-so-traffic life back on the southern islands. He received no calls or texts from R. He assumed he was still asleep. 

He returned that afternoon to an artist painting quietly at a large canvas. R was now in a T-shirt, shorts, and slippers. 

“How was last night?” he asked. 

“Tiring.” R did not lift his eyes from the canvas. 

“Okay.” Enjolras shrugged, and did not bother him anymore. He opened the TV and switched to the early-evening news. 

His jaw dropped as he found a section of newly-painted length of EDSA wall, a burst of color, with rainbows and doves, words of peace and understanding. But none of the paint companies nor the art groups asked by the channel news claimed responsibility for the new art. 

All R said was: “Do you like it?” 

Enjolras nodded, with a smile.


	12. summer heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long quiet. (Some of you may be aware that the Pacific Rim thing is moving, thanks.) 
> 
> NSFW on the second half.
> 
> *For non-Pinoys: this election season has been the most contentious in recent history. Partly because at stake are the scary possibility of fascism, the scary possibility of return to dictatorship, or the scary possibility of retention of an oligarchy.

"Who are you voting for?" they asked R. 

"Allan Carreon," he answered, with a straight and earnest face, but with a sly grin. 

Ferre scowled on behalf of everybody. Carreon was a Facebook comedian, the Ambassador for Intergalactic Earth, the best known among the nuisance presidential candidates. "No, seriously."

"Roy Seneres, then," R replied. 

"But he died!" Rac answered. 

"Precisely," R said, with a shrug then a large gulp of beer. 

"That's an abstain vote," Ferre pointed out. "An abstain vote is throwing your vote away, making it easier for someone you don't like to be in power." 

"At least the someone I don't like is not on my conscience," R concluded, draining the beer mug. 

It had indeed come to that, they all knew it. And the more the ABC did their work, the more the reality was apparent. 

ABC was not Anonymous, but the organization did not side with any candidate. They did not rally for any candidate on the streets. They rallied on social media. 

Their posts made the FB rounds for sound research poking holes at all statements made by candidates. Their supporters helped them confirm the data. Others brought leads to them for investigation. Some did actual legwork, interviewing people. Others scoured the nets in checking all claims. Still others made the easily-shared graphics. 

Enjo remained the face of the group, accepting interviews by the news channels and radio stations when requested. This was what kept him busy during the day, sometimes into the nights. 

The level of trust they received from unbiased readers, likers, and sharers rivalled that of Rappler and was just a little below some of the professional news organizations. As it were, the news sites tended to get their starting leads from ABC. 

They were trolled, of course. 30-tards attacked. The yellow army charged. Apologists defended in circles. The red army kept cool but countered as much they could. The blue army kept mum, which fed the 30ist trolls and the yellow trolls. Some of these attacks ABC countered with evidences of dummy social media accounts and payment systems. The other attacks, they shook their heads at. The most vitriolic of attacks, they calmly reported as abuse of policy guidelines. 

"Why the heck do you keep feeding the trolls?" R asked them, more than once. 

"We do not feed the trolls; we are killing them!" Enjo kept replying. 

R sighed. "Haynaku. Headless trolls are worse." 

R, in general, kept away from the insanity, leaving the trolls to the cooler heads. But his popular Instagram account regularly posted editorial sketches. Of candidates feeding trolls. Of trolls in a long curving, wandering line, toward a candidate who gave envelopes. Of trolls fighting other trolls. 

His trolls got so popular they were copied then spray-painted onto walls, made into stickers, or turned into printed shirts. He did not mind, if they meant the trolls would stop, aware they were watched. 

........................

The searing political climate did not help Enjo deal with the terrible environmental climate, burning his skin, soaking his shirt. Maybe he would go back to Cebu once this crazy election season was over, to remember why he was doing all of this in the first place, why he was rooming with a cynical drunk from the capital who kept countering his arguments. 

He returned to an empty apartment, that annoyingly hot evening. He recalled hearing something about an old band with a new set of songs. He figured R must have gone to watch and listen. He did not mind. 

He took off his sweated-through shirt, and grabbed the coldest available can from their shared refrigerator. He opened the can and quickly gulped.  
He gagged at the cold burning in his throat. R had bought too many cans of beer again, instead of several cans of soft drinks. 

Dizzy from the rapid pouring of alcohol, he scanned the ref again, and found their water pitcher half-empty. He gulped the water down, straight from the pitcher. His throat burned again. 

His head began to spin, and he returned the now-empty water pitcher into the refrigerator. 

He dragged himself to the bed, and flopped into it. 

He had forgotten to switch on the electric fan, but was now the room spun more than he would be able to rise from. He shut his eyes instead, hoping the room would stop spinning if he did so. 

He took off his pants while on the bed. Their removal made everything cooler, even if he kept sweating. 

His head still spun. His throat burned. He felt tired. He felt warm. He felt...suddenly needy. 

There was a pulsing at his groin, and he felt a need to appease it. He lowered a hand over his shaft, and held it. 

His body recalled how he made love with someone he would never understand, but understood him and understood his body. His body recalled how it was touched to best effect, and his fingers stroked in like manner. He gasped as the waves of need were sated. He sweated in the humid heat. 

He was not sure for how long he touched himself, but he did feel himself release then slacken, and felt himself drift off to a deep slumber. 

.................................

R arrived home, after midnight, to a naked roommate. Said roommate had obviously kicked off his clothes; the jeans were still on the floor. 

Said roommate was also pleasuring himself in his sleep. 

Said roommate was too far gone, at the moment, for him to wake Enjo a bit, for him to take over. He could only watch. 

Enjo had a model body. Even the owner knew it, and sometimes flaunted it. R watched as that body, slick with sweat, arced with parted legs, as it continued to stroke. 

Not knowing what else to do, R grabbed the nearest sketchpad and the nearest pencil. 

He started to sketch, as he continued to watch. 

He kept sketching as the shaft filled with need, as it filled and straightened. He watched as the body rocked its hips, as the lips opened in gasps. He kept sketching as the body twisted and turned, as the mouth moaned. 

He watched as it trembled in release, and fell back onto the bed, satisfied and pleasured. 

He sketched that body as it spread out in its sweated, sated nakedness over the large bed, falling into a deep sleep. 

Then he kept sketching and sketching and thinking. 

He glanced above his drawing to see Enjo move on the bed, turning onto his side with a snore. He also sketched these new postures of repose. 

He continued to sketch, until the sun began to appear. 

..........................

Enjo blushed to find himself completely undressed on the bed when he awoke. He cursed the terrible summer heat, humid and wind-less even in the nights. 

He cursed even more when he found R asleep while seated on the couch, his sketchbook beside him as he snored. 

Enjo sighed at how R would be asleep until noon, and how he already had to get going, fielding calls and interviews. He also sighed at how useless R was to the cause, just making sketches, instead of helping to counter the trolls. 

.......................

A series of provocative editorial sketches began to circulate on social media. 

A sketch of a young man with a sinewed physique, the face hidden, bombarded by lines of texts presented as tweets and Facebook posts. 

The same sinewed physique with a hidden face, pleasuring itself as it seemed to look at a television screen. 

A similar pose of pleasuring itself as it seemed to look at scrolling FB posts supporting candidates. 

The same sinewed physique, attacked and wounded at the torso, arms, and legs, as it appeared crucified by social media. 

The editorial sketches were shared many times over on FB, many with added comments in support of their favorite candidate. But all the supporters of all the candidates used them. Each camp, each army attributed the art to favor them. 

Many did not attribute the sketches properly, removing any trademarks of ownership, slapping their own watermarks over them. ABC issued a statement, claiming the sketches to be from one of their members. Yet the sketches continued to be shared. 

Enjo blushed at knowing his sinewed physique was all over social media, but only he and three other people knew it was his sinewed physique in particular. 

But since ABC claimed to know the artist, Enjo fielded the most questions about the editorial sketches. Did he commission them? Did he know about them beforehand? What did ABC mean by releasing those sketches? 

Only then did he notice how interestingly useful R had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I am aware that no such social media presence really existed during this madcap election season. Please consider this a dream I wish happened.


	13. Quezon avenue station

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the "MRT, familiar faces" prompt from kannibal, initially on tumblr. 
> 
> *The MRT and LRT are overhead rail systems, with regular stop stations. MRT parallels the length of EDSA.

It will not happen if you stop at the North Avenue station, what with all the people spilling out to the mall and spilling into the MRT station. But the thought occurs if going down at the Quezon Avenue station. There is only a mini-mall to one side. There is a high bridge crossing both sides of EDSA. There is a drop into EDSA. 

He should not really be at the Quezon Avenue station. But as the MRT station from the universities in Diliman and Katipunan, he found himself there, to cross afterward at the other end into the LRT. 

And so he found an artist of his close acquaintance at that cross-bridge, not walking to the left or the right. The artist slung a backpack over one shoulder. His hair blew in all directions with the breeze. 

Everyone else would have thought the young man crazy for just standing there. Fortunately Enjo was already aware of how crazy R was. 

“Whatever stupid thing you are planning in that expansive head of yours,” he told him, “stop, right now.” 

R smirked, still staring at the cars crawling through EDSA below. “I do not have an expensive head.” 

“I did not say your head is ‘magastos’, silly,” Enjo clarified. “I know enough that I know your head has universes in it, vast thoughts I can’t even get around, many interests and I don’t know all of them. It’s expansive. And I would rather keep it here.” 

R sighed. “Thanks. I guess. But you can do many things, without me.” 

Enjo grabbed him by the shoulders. “I LIVE at your apartment!” he said. “Pisti yawa! Tell me things!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” R said, still peering down at EDSA as he stopped being shaken. “I should.” 

“If you’re here on the bridge, you already paid for a ticket, right?” Enjo said. He grabbed his hand. “Come on. We’re going home.” 

R blinked and stared blankly at him. “Home?” 

“Your apartment! Your house! Your home!” Enjo squeezed the hand. “What the hell happened to make you like this!” 

R kept staring blankly, allowing Enjo to pull him forward to one side of the bridge. “Rejected. Projects. Proposals. Something, like that.” 

Enjo scratched his head. He was not the kind to be affected by a string of rejections, but R was different. He kept pulling him forward. “Calm down. I do not think it’s you. If anything, I suspect it’s this saints-abandoned government. But not you. Either way. We’re heading home. You’re resting where I can see you. But we’re heading home.” 

R suddenly stopped walking, yanking Enjo. 

“ ‘We’?” he asked. 

Enjo turned and smirked. “Of course, silly. We.” He tugged again, pulling R forward. 

Always, forward. Even if he had to pull him. Always forward. 

R sighed. “Okay.” He held the hand, and walked.


	14. list

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the prompt from previous chapter.

He pulled him off the MRT, up and down some stairs, then toward the ground level of Taft Avenue. 

R un-spaced long enough to ask: "We're not crossing to LRT?" 

Enjo flagged down the next taxi. He opened the door, and pushed R inside the back seats. 

"Saan tayo, boss?" the taxi driver said. Where to? 

Enjo gave the address, as well as the Waze directions, just in case. But the driver seemed to be familiar with the area, and set the taxi moving. 

R leaned his head back. "We don't have the cash for this..." 

"Let me worry about that," Enjo said, both for the driver's sake and R's. 

"Ba...hala ka," R said, closing his eyes. It's up to you now. 

Shortly after, when Enjo peered at the rear-view mirror, R already looked deeply asleep. 

It had been hard enough to keep R from falling onto the rail tracks, while waiting for the MRT coaches to arrive. It had been impossible to keep him alert while inside. Enjo sat him onto a free seat while at the less crowded Quezon avenue station, but R's head kept bobbing, and Enjo had to manuever himself as he stood in front of him, keeping R safe from the crush of people moving in and out. 

There was no way they could keep that up through the LRT stations, so he decided to taxi the rest of the way home. 

It was no so much that R was sleepy. He seemed brain-exhausted, his thinking system overheated, his brain on basic-recovery mode, not fully working. 

R collapsed onto the back seats. 

"Is your friend alright, sir?" the driver asked. "Do you want me to head to a hospital?" 

Enjo shook his head. "Thank you, but I think he just needs to rest." 

His phone rang. Ferre. "Yeah?" 

Ferre got to the point. "Enjo, do you know where Grantaire is?" 

"We're on the way home," he said. "I found him at Quezon ave." 

Ferre breathed with much relief. "Ay, thank GOD he's with you! He hasn't been answering any calls or texts, and we've been using all the apps! He's the only one who hasn't replied! How is he?" 

"Like he's been bombed, from the inside." Enjo looked behind him. R was in no state to take up a call. "What do you mean, the only one?" 

"So the other artists haven't called you?" 

"Fer, what are you talking about?" 

The taxi had gotten stuck in traffic. He had time for explanations. 

"What has R told you?" Ferre asked. 

"Something about rejected project proposals, but not much else," he said. 

Ferre audibly sighed. "I'll head over to R's place shortly. But when you get there, open your social media accounts." 

"Huh?" 

"It seems that the artists known to sympathise with ABC have been targeted." 

"Targeted!" 

"Our friends have been contacting. They say project contracts have been pulled from them, because of social media pressure. None of them have been paid. Many of them just found out." 

"Who...who has been targeting them?" 

"Troll armies," Ferre said. "There is an online list of the artists allied to us. The dancer released it." 

He grumbled. That woman was smart, but used that intelligence for disinformation and destruction. 

"Guess who's on top of that list," Ferre said. 

Enjo did not have to. 

"Because of that damn list, companies who are Grantaire's regular art clients for commercial work have been harassed no end," Ferre told him. "I suspect all his recent project contracts were suddenly pulled." 

Enjo clenched a fist and growled. "What about Feuilly?" 

"He's doing damage control, and he swears he will stand with R," Ferre said. "But, it will be hard to get the lost contracts back." 

R lay on the taxi's back seat, his eyes shut, everything about him exhausted. 

Enjo knew R could handle online trolls; it was one of the things the Grantaire account was masterful at, stopping trolls from attacking Enjo's political blog posts. That was not the problem. But the trolls had stolen meaningful, paying work from him. All at once. In a way that made R think it was his fault. 

Enjo growled again. "What...can we do?" 

Ferre sighed. "Besides always giving the truth, I have no idea. I was hoping you had some." 

"Noted. I'll wait for you at the apartment." 

He ended the call. 

And cursed the saints-abandoned new government.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to hoping I don't have to spell out who is being referenced. Here's to hoping this isn't actually happening to actual people. (sigh) 
> 
> But thanks for still reading. Will see about the next part of this string of events.


	15. cappuccino

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I should probably explain, if there are still foreign readers. There is around a 6-month gap between these last 3 short chapters and chapter 12 (summer heat, about the election period), in which time CHANGE HAS COME to the government. And not the kind that is good. For one, organized vitriol is well-organized and well-financed (sigh).

The first thing Enjo checked, while stuck in traffic, was the grantaire IG account. 

True enough, the last few posts had been inundated with horrible comments targeted at the account's owner, accusing him that he was a part of the yellow army, telling him he was a bad artist anyway and should stop making his pieces, and many, many derogatory terms accusing of him garnering favor with said yellow army by sleeping with a leader of the movement. 

Enjo was already used to having many trolls on his public social media accounts, which he generally ignored or left to other members of the ABC to answer. But that was on a whole different level of vicious, as well as misguided. 

He also checked the IG accounts of other artists, and found the same level of terrible misguided commenting and trolling. It was terrible and misguided, one quickly saw it. Many of the vicious comments were similar to each other. Many did not even match the given IG post there were commenting on. 

Reliable Ferre had sent a screencap on Viber of the CappuChino Blog's post with the artists on their hit list. The artist better known as Grantaire was indeed the first person listed. 

He called Feuilly. 

"Ferre told me," he informed quickly. "Is it true?" 

"Ah, Apollo, the muse," Feuilly said with a sigh. "The clients got afraid of being involved. They all pulled back. I am so sorry. But the personal exhibit will still push through, do remind him for me?" 

Enjo said he would as he grit his teeth. 

He also called the other artists, confirming Ferre's report. 

He took a deep breath, then typed a short message for his public Twitter account: "We have been informed of recent developments. There will be an official statement." 

He was too angry at the moment to make a rash thread of a Twitter statement. He needed Ferre and Rac. 

The taxi stopped in front of the apartment. 

"Ah, ser, I think I know you now, I may have heard you on the radio already," the driver said as he collected the payment. "Just keep up the good work." 

"Ha?" 

The driver smirked. "There are still a lot of masa who admire what you're doing. And I do think CappuChino is mean. Just know that we're on your side." 

"Salamat, kuya," Enjo said, as he collected R from the back seat. 

..............................

R quickly settled not on the bed, but on the old sofa, throwing a blanket over himself including his head, covering him in darkness, his head buried into the seat, his back facing the rest of the room. He curled up, burying his head deeper. 

"R, you still need to talk to me..." 

"Sorry," he mumbled from under the blanket. "Really tired. Sleepy." 

Enjo sat on the floor, leaning his head onto R's back. "R. None of this is your fault." 

"I gave them an opening," he mumbled. "I gave her a weakness to use. I am your weakness." 

"That is NOT true!" 

"I am a weak point. A hole in the defense. A chink in the armor. Let go of me, Enjo. You don't need me." 

"Will you stop that!" 

"You don't need me. Let go." 

"NO." 

"You don't need me." 

"R, will you just STOP--" 

But R curled up even more, and said nothing more. 

A call. Ferre and Rac were at the door. 

The two found R, a large balled blanket over the sofa, heaving gently in unnatural sleep. 

"Will he be okay?" Rac asked. 

"Only if we fix this mess," Enjo said, with a sigh. 

All three huddled around a laptop, thinking through the whole situation, thinking of the most strategic answer. 

.............................

They made a draft, they had the draft checked with lawyer friends. They even had it checked by reporter friends, in exchange for first dibs once officially released. 

There was first a citing of the post that incited the activity, then a summary of the impact on the given artists. The artists were acknowledged. Their affiliation with the organization was also acknowledged. The connection between the artists and the organization, and the implications of the recent trolling actions, was recognized. 

"We will call it by its name. It is harassment, made with a political agenda. Legal action will be taken accordingly. 

"The ABC, and the friends of the ABC, will continue to speak truth to power. We will take to the streets, as often as necessary, if it makes people listen to us. We will continue to support those who speak through art, if it makes people listen to us. 

"We will not be dissuaded. We will not be stopped." 

The three young men, the leaders of the organization, stared at each other, looked toward their friend huddled on the sofa. 

"We do this for him," Ferre reminded. 

Enjo nodded, and pressed 'send'. 

............................

Enjo woke up to a succession of dings on his phone. 

He rubbed his eyes, and found R asleep on the floor, surrounded by paper filled with brown markings. 

He headed toward one of the large sheets of paper. He found the profile of his back, holding the Philippine flag high over his head. It was rendered in brown watercolor. He found several refillable brush pens lying around. 

But he also found several small containers of the brown watercolor. Strangely, they smelled not of paint, but of coffee. 

He picked one up. It WAS coffee. 

There was another ding on the phone. He finally pressed on buttons and checked what they were about. 

Several emails and text messages were coming, many requesting for televised interviews about their recent statement. Some were from newspapers asking for clarifications before they went to press. There were even some from the local LGBT organizations, showing support for the ABC as well as condemnation of the trolling activities. 

But aside from those, there was a new IG post, and both Ferre and Rac were linking him to it. 

"When life hands you cappuccino," the accompanying message read, "make cappuccino art." 

It was the coffee art of Enjo holding the flag up high, as people raised fists beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course it's not a cappuccino blog. But most of you know that. 
> 
> Also, I am not so very sure if you can really do coffee art with cappuccino. I think it's done with strong dark stuff, so my apologies if I am in error.


	16. girl in hijab

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy barricade day, guys. Prompt from K, with much thanks. Hope you like. 
> 
> This story series has gotten darker and darker, no thanks to our politics. (sighs) 
> 
> Marawi (in Mindanao, south of the country, far from the capital) was invaded by terrorists, which gave -some person- a reason to declare that what must not be declared at all. And yes, that I am being slightly cryptic is how worried but as well as how angered we are. 
> 
> To be clear, this little thing is NOT to make fun or make a small thing out of something terrible and major, and actively affecting people's lives. But it was a relief to unleash a little of that frustration that I can't do anything. I hate that I can't be more useful, besides for amplifying news. But thank you for reading.

The news first came quietly, gradually. Men with guns walking through the town, waving black flags with Arabic letters. Then shots were fired, people were taken hostage, social media started screaming, and traditional media finally took correctly noisy notice. 

When the news hit, Enjo began calling people. 

Within hours of the news, Enjo had a ticket to Iligan. By the next morning, Enjo, with R, was flying. 

The force of nature put that force into good use, calling for donations, calling contacts in Iligan who had contacts in Marawi. 

He decided, being an outsider even if from the Visayas, to operate at the nearest safe region, but with constant connection and movement into the zones directly affected. 

The ABC worked as part of the NGO community organizers, helping everyone make sense of the chaos, by having one light to look at: Enjo's fiery magnetism. From that one focal point, Rac talked to everyone to find out the immediate concerns, while Ferre organized what was already available for distribution. They worked with the local Red Cross/Crescent, helping to organise their medical and paramedical services. 

Enjo growled at R, who seemed to be doing nothing but chatting with kids. "Why did you even come along?" 

"Just do the thing, Enjo," he said, grinning. "I'll be useful." 

"How, even?" 

It was Ferre who answered, patting Enjo's shoulders. "Psychological and mental health support, pare. DSWD is on it. They'll need people who do art therapy right. As well as keeping up morale, I guess." 

R shrugged his shoulders, in agreement. 

Enjo rolled his eyes. "Whatever. In the meantime, can you help with the lifting?" 

"Sure." R grinned at him with as much adoration as he could muster, before jumping off the platform and running off. 

Enjo rolled his eyes. "Where is the newbie member?" 

Ferre chuckled as he pointed to a youngish Manileno standing in the middle of the chaos, in a daze. 

Enjo shook his head. "Why did we even bring him along? Does he realize how serious the situation is?" Indeed, the school gym was filled to the brim with new 'bakwit', evacuees from the fighting and the attacks. If Enjo was not in the thick of that mass of people, it was only because his coordination was done with local authorities on the general scale, while people like Rac and Ferre addressed the specifics. 

Ferre shrugged. 

"Can you at least get him moving, instead of standing there like a statue?" Enjo said. 

"I'll see what I can do." 

..........................

The Manileno who had stopped moving had forgotten to move. His eyes were glued on the medical area of the chaos, where the local Red Crescent helped the refugees. 

In the midst of that part of the chaos was a young lady, wearing a delicate blue hijab over the white-and-red uniform. She moved from cot to cot, stopping at each for a long moment, holding a hand inside her own, speaking kind words. She cleaned wounds and mended dressings and checked on IV lines. Her smile was sincere and warm, and one can feel that warmth even from where the Manileno was. 

She turned for a moment, saw him, gave him a gentle smile. 

The world stopped spinning. At least for one young man. 

The Manileno had forgotten about the work, the people around him, people like Enjo who he answered to. He even forgot about existing, at least for several moments. His life had closed in and targeted at the pretty and kind young woman in the blue hijab. 

He had not even noticed Ferre walk toward the young lady and talk to her for a moment. All he knew was her. He had never seen such beauty blended with such kindness, not in all of the noise and bustle of the capital. 

He had not noticed that Ferre had walked back to him. 

He only realized the world when Ferre began to wave a hand across his eyes. "Earth to Marius, Earth to Marius." 

Marius blinked. "Oh, sorry. So sorry. Was I sleeping while standing up?" 

Ferre laughed. "I guess?" 

He rubbed his eyes, realized he had been standing and really should be walking toward the supply area, to help with the distribution. But he could not keep his eyes off her. 

Ferre laughed again. But he whispered into their newbie's ear. "Her name is rather long and Arabic, but her nickname is Cosette." 

"Cosette?" He took up the name, savored its taste in his tongue, said it slowly then quickly then something in between then over and over. 

Ferre yanked Marius by the hand and led him away to the supply area, laughing as they went. 

"Ah well," Ferre remarked, "at least love is still a good thing."


End file.
